


Cut Here

by HandsOfGold



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Cutting, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Suicide Attempt, inbetween canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-11-26 02:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HandsOfGold/pseuds/HandsOfGold
Summary: Richie Tozier is a failed comedian whose only option seems to be to take his own life. But when he finds a worn out notebook in his drawer, things are bound to change for him...





	1. Chapter 1

Richie Tozier awoke on the threadbare mattress that he'd put onto the floor after his twenty year old bedframe had collapsed and he hadn't been able to afford a new one. Frankly, he hadn't thought he'd survive this high, and in fact he hadn't even wanted to. His manager had left him after he'd failed to get another gig as a stand-up-comedian - and in fact, he understood why nobody wanted him to entertain their gigs; he was a crackhead and an alcoholic, he was rapidly bcoming his mother, just that he was childless and even worse than she had been back then.

He didn't even know what had happened to her after he'd moved out of the house, he only knew that his own life was going down the drain increasingly fast, and that there really was no reason to carry on. But after everything he'd tried, after drinking until he couldn't stand and then snorting not one but two lines of coke at once, after this last night he was convinced that he'd even fail in ridding the earth of scum like himself.

With his head feeling twice its size and a constant hammering in his skull that he just couldn't get used to Richie wanted to force himself to his feet - but why would I? he then thought, he might as weel stay in bed all day because nobody would miss him anyways. As far as he remembered even his manager, the oldest friend he could remember he had - because his childhood and teens were a blur that he couldn't remember in the slightest bit - had lost faith in him and left him after Richie's tenth refusal to go into rehab. And here he was now, living off the little money he'd saved from when he'd still had an occasion job, living in a single room that contained nothing but a mattress and the old drawer he knew he'd kept from his childhood days... because that, strangely, he knew.

But everything else that he knew was that he was a failure and so he finally got to his knees, then to his feet and, after realizing he'd slept through the entire day and had no missed calls - because who would want to call him? - grabbed the little plastic bag of cocaine that he kept on top of the drawer and spilled it into a neat line on top of the drawer, the only hard surface in the rrom that was not the linoleum floor.

Later on, when he'd opened the window to let the icy January air breathe on his burning skin; when he was high as a kite already and the feeling of euphoria had set in, he bravely took his phone and decided to call Chris, his manager (previous manager, he reminded himself).

The dial tone rang and at first nobody picked up, but then he could hear Chris' exasperated voice at the other end.

"Richie. Didn't I make it all too clear? Besides, you woke me up. What do you want?"

"Well, Chris, you see, I can do it. I know I can have the breakthrough, and you know it too! I know this great club, you see, if we call it and get a gig there then this will be it! We can-"

"Richie!" Chris cut his rambling off sharply.

"I've known you for twelve years and I know damn well you only talk like this when you're fucking high. So you haven't listened to me again. You're high again. And you see, Richie, you see that this is why I left you. I've got nothing more to say to you."

"But Chris-" Richie began, but by then Chris had already hung up on him and all he could hear was the beeping of the line that rang in his ear, enhanced by the drugs in his system.

Richie let down his phone, for a second his hand was numb. Then he hurled the phone into the opposite corner where the display shattered. Richie slid down the wall next to his drawer, buried his face between his knees and remained there, curled up, until he had made what he was sure would be his final decision.

He opened the bottom drawer, the one that he knew was full of childhood memories and that he had never dared to open because maybe he'd pushed away his childhood memories for a good reason. The drawer was full of old paper sheets written on with dried and paled out ink - back then ballpoint pens ahdn't had their rise in schools yet -, pieces of fabric that seemed to belong to various textbooks and - and Richie noticed it with both dread and relief - his old pocket knife and a piece of rope.

Richie wanted to cry then, because he knew that if he went through with what this discovery promised it would be final, so final that his breath got stuck in his throat and he started to hiccup as if he was actually in tears. He reached for the two items, knife and rope, then, but on top of them there was something else, something that should change his life forever: an unimpressive, small notebook with abrown cover and a title that was unmistakably scrawled there in his own messy cursive writing:

"Richie Tozier", it read, "Derry".

Derry.

Derry.

Derry.

And Richie remembered, he remembered so vividly that it felt like a punch in the stomach, remembered all the beauties and horrors of that fateful summer and how alive he'd been back then. As he opened the notebook with shaking hands and flipped through it he noticed that only the first page was written on, half of it in neat handwriting that could not be his own.

"Eddie Kaspbrak", it read, and next to it an address and a red arrow scribbled in Richie's handwriting, on top of which was written "Eds Spaghetts", also by Richie. But Richie could not even read the address, hus eyes focused on the name, all the rest of the page blurred and all he coud read was "Eddie Kaspbrak".

Eddie, and the memories his name conjured. Feet in white socks knocking off Richie's glasses in a hammock, the comic in front of his eyes instantly turning blurry. Trembling hands touching as the projector in front of them developed a life of its own. A thin, high voice constantly rambling about what health risks the sewers bore. And of course, how could he not have remembered, Eddie's soft lips on Richie's chapped ones, how Eddie had complained that Richie smelled of cigarette smoke and Richie had shut him up by dunking him under water in the quarry, where he'd dived after him and kissed him again.

How could he ever have forgotten?

Of course that had been his dreams, and nothing else, and that was why he'd forgotten. Richie's hands went to his chest where his heart beat, his chewed down nails dug into his skin so hard that it would have bled had they been longer. It hurt so much thinking of this, all of these things he'd lost, probably, because of the drugs he'd been taking for longer than he could remember.

Richie went back to the page that had miraculously remained opened as the notebook had dropped back into the drawer. In the bottom right corner, written in the tiniest, neatest handwriting he had ever read, was a telephone number, a landline number because back then there had been no commonly used mobile phones, he guessed, when these numbers had been written down.

So Richie grabbed, with shaking hands, the half empty whiskey bottle that was also on top of the drawer and took a swig out of it, then another, until it was entirely empty, heating up his body even more until he was shivering from the heat as if he had a fever. He had decided to give this one more chance. Then he dialled the number, without even knowing what he was doing, and waited.

waited.

waited.

"Myra Kaspbrak, hello?"

There was a female voice at the other end, deep but still somewhat high pitched, Richie didn't understand how the hell that worked. Or maybe he heard two different voices because he was hallucinating. Everything had happened before.

"Hello?" the voice repeated impatiently.

"Hello Mrs. Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier here, old friend of Eddie's," he finally slurred out without a break to breathe.

"'s he available?"

"Eddie's at work," Myra told him and Richie's hopes sank, but at the same time his joy went up, because this was the sign he had waited for, the sign that he could go ahead now. That there was nothing stopping him.

"Is there anything important I should tell him?" Myra asked. Richie shook his head, unaware at first that she could not see him.

"Nah, it's alright. Thank you, Mrs. Kaspbrak."

"You can call me Myra," she said confusedly, but he had already hung up on her.

It took Richie two more hours to get as drunk as he wanted to be, as drunk as he needed to be to make his plans come true. Because he knew he was much too cowardly to kill himself in a sober state of mind. He just wouldn't be able to cut deep enough, just wouldn't jump off the drawer with the rope around his neck, nothing of this because he was much too hesitant when he was sober. As if there was something in his mind, some stupidity that told him that he was still worth something.

Then, at 2:34am, Richie put the knife to his wrist and watched it linger there. The naked lamp's light reflected in the steel so beautifully that he wanted to cry again. Yes, Richie was an emotional drunk, and that was mostly where the thick scars on both his arms stemmed from: from the loss of control while drinking, the desperate attempt to regain it that always spiralled out of control again.

"Please," he whispered to a god he did not believe in, begged to make it happen this time. But just as he wanted to cut through the line he'd drawn on his wrist a couple days ago (cut here, it said above it), when Chris had left him, in fact, the cheesy first notes of TOTO's Africa danced through the room. Unknown number, his phone said, and he repressed a sigh before he dropped the blade and picked up the phone, why he didn't even know.

"Rich' Tozier here, hello?"

"Eddie Kaspbrak, dude. Man, you sound fucked. Actually I was just calling to hear who you are, since you apparently called my wife to talk to me."

"Eds," Richie whispered, holding onto the phone with both of his hands.

"Why are you calling me that?" Eddie asked with irritation in his voice.

"I'm... it's me, Eds. Richie. From... from Derry."

"Derry," Eddie repeated almost mechanically, and then: "Oh."

"Do you remember?" Richie asked with his breath held, hoping that the notebook was not another delusion that could not be trusted.

"I remember," Eddie breathed, and then: "Richie. Oh my God Rich. Why on earth didn't I remember you?"

"Same thing I asked myself," Richie said and laughed dryly

"No answer, I guess."

"Richie, how drunk are you?" Eddie asked, now seriously.

"Very," Richie heard himself confessing, and the enxt words spilled from his lips like an unstoppable flood.

"Eds, man, you know I was- you don' even know how scared I was that this- I don' know what I was scared of, even, isn't it funny, but I guess after I remembered you I just wanted to hear your voice before... before..."

His courage failed him, and as he pressed the shattered display closer to his ear it cut open the skin of his temple. Richie felt the blood flowing comfortingly.

"Before what, Richie? Where are you?"

Richie looked around, and funnily enough he didn't know where he was. He laughed, and laughed again, laughed hysterically at his fucked up situation and didn't even hear Eddie's questions that the other man threw at his head.

"Isn't it funny, Eds, how much I used to love you?"

"Richie, I can see your fucking location," Eddie said harshly at the other end, "and it's not very far from me. I'm coming over now and you can't stop me."

At this Richie stopped laughing, and his face turned pale white. He shook his head in silence and pleaded with Eddie to not come, but it was in vain. Eddie would be here soon, and all that Richie could do was to wait - or to take care that Eddie would never see him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I found out that Richie, canonically, has used cocaine in the past I am just more fervent about writing this shit. My angst loving heart is also pretty wild. Enjoy!

Ignoring Myra's anxious questions Eddie rushed frantically out of the house, jumped into his car and made his way through the nightly streets - that were, of course, still full in a city as big as this one. He couldn't hope to arrive at Richie's earlier than half an hour from now. He shivered at the prospect of what could happen within those thirty minutes but he had to shove the fear as far away from him as possible.

He was going to have a panic attack. Not an asthma attack, from that the inhalator in the center console would save him. A full blown panic attack, stemming from years of helplessness in which the only solution had been to panic because his mother had never told or shown him another. But he was not allowed to panic. Richie had not sounded good, not at all, and Eddie didn't even want to imagine what-

Eddie, no, he admonished himself, but even as he succeeded in not thinking and worrying (which was an admirable thing for him, who used to panic if somebody sneezed within a radius of twenty meters around him), even then he could not concentrate on the road because he remembered such significant things that he could never have forgotten... or could he?

Richie's bare face, oddly vulnerable without his glasses, as he stared blankly at Eddie while only seeing his face as a blurry oval on top of a blurry body. Richie holding Eddie's inhalator, helping him put it to his mouth while saying "It will be okay"; another arm had been around Eddie's waist but all he could feel was Richie touching his cheeks, them burning where his fingers had left no visible traces. And of course their kisses, awkward and clumsy, just the way it was for teenagers sharing their first kisses (although Richie, of course, would never in his life have admitted that it had been his first kiss - "You know about sex, don't you, Eds?"), nevertheless they had been beautiful to Eddie. They had been twelve.

Then it was all gone, and Eddie could not tell why. There was something in this summer of 1989 that was important, vital even for his own development, but he could not recall a single thing of it. And even though it probably was wrong to ignore your wife's cries for explanation to rush to aid of an old friend

(lover?)

it also felt so right at the same time, so natural that it frightened Eddie because he didn't even have another choice, at least for him there was no other choice. Maybe it was destiny that had put them so close together yet so far apart, certainly it was destiny that had put their places of residence not so far apart because something, maybe fate, maybe the universe, clearly wanted Eddie to be at Richie's side right now.

There were brakes squealing outside, and as Eddie looked up he had taken the right of way from a Mercedes driver who was angrily shaking his fist at him. Eddie stepped onto the gas pedal, crossed the red traffic light on the next intersection and only narrowly escaped a crash with a Ford that had actually been allowed to drive. But he really, really couldn't care less about some violated traffic rules because Richie was somwhere drunk off his ass and if one knew Richie they were bound to know that Richie plus alcohol was not a desirable combination.

(But did he really know Richie?)

Eddie, as a limo driver, had a gift for inculcating directions and addresses into his mind. He knew the city streets like his own pocket and he knew that the part of the city he was driving into was not one of its nice, no, rather one of its problem quarters, and he couldn't help but wonder how Richie had ended up here, Richie, who'd aced all of his classes despite bringing home terrible behavioral grades. But fate had a path for everyone, so he believed.

But Richie's path wasn't... whatever it had come to.

"You will arrive in 50 meters," the monotonous voice of the navigation system said and Eddie started in his seat. Checking his watch he noticed that it had taken him 23 minutes to reach his destination, a much shorter time than he had expected - which might have been due to his neglect of pretty much every basic traffic rule.

Eddie couldn't explain to himself why he was freaking out the way he did (hell, he hadn't seen Richie in over twenty years, and hell, even if they had once been lovers there must have been a reason why they'd parted and hell, Eddie hadn't even known he was interested in men until half an hour ago, and while this was not a huge problem anymore in 2012 he still couldn't wrap his mind around the concept that he'd simply forgotten about it).

"You have reached your destination," said the voice and Eddie hit the brakes hard, having been lost in thought again.

The houses he looked up to were apartment complexes, not having been painted freshly in probably well over thirty years

(thirty years ago he had lived in Derry. thirty years ago he had been with Richie.)

and they looked pretty run-down in general, lights on in several windows.

Eddie shivered as he exited the car and was brushed by the ice cold air of January. He locked the car, obviously, because the risk of being robbed or his car being stolen was fairly big in anarea like this, and then walked over the sidewalk towards the apartments. He tried to calm himself down by breathing the cold January air, but the fact that he was in one of the shadiest areas of the city in his tailored suit that he wore while driving celebrity clients to their destinations did definitely not help him in the slightest bit.

Holy fuck, he thought as he read the names on the mailboxes. The apartments had to be tiny, was his second thought, if so many fit into this house, and his third thought was how was he supposed to find Richie's name among those tiny, scribbled name tags that he could barely decipher at 3am in the dim shine of a street lamp ten meters away.

But he had no time to lose, and so Eddie sprinted back to his car, took out the flashlight he kept there for reasons (that he'd forgotten over the years, it was just there) and started to scan the names, top left to bottom right. Williams. Tuckerman. Johnson. Lamarque. Abbey. Colton. Criss(it conjured a bad feeling in Eddie's gut). Snider. Tozier.

Tozier!

Eddie rang the bell, because surely there were no two people with this name in the building. He waited and waited, but there was no reply. The light in the window above him went out. Eddie pressed a random bell in the bottom row, hoping to hit a right one, and indeed a sleepy voice came to his ears about a minute and a half later.

"What the fuck do you want?" it groaned.

"Look, I have to get into this house," Eddie said nervously, shifting from one feet to the other.

"It's important."

"If you think I'd let you in you're at the wrong address," he grumpy voice, male, said.

"You turn up here without giving me a reason and expect me to let you in. No chance, man."

Then he was gone, and Eddie was left alone again. It had been four minutes since he'd arrived, and every minute only added to his despair. Running his hand through his hair - his forehead was hot with embarrassment and anxiety - he leaned against the door - and it gave in! Eddie was inside of the house!

He checked the name tags on the bells again and noted that Richie must live in the second highest floor of the building. Eddie had to use his inhalator three times as he went up the stairs, always taking two at a time, and he was completely out of breath when he arrived. The automatic ceiling light was barely worth being called a light, and so he had to use his flashlight again to read the names on the doors. Tozier was at the very left end of the floor, and so another two minutes were stolen from Eddie until he reached the door and knocked on it strongly.

"Richie," he hissed, "Richie, it's me, Eddie. Eds. Please, open the door, please, if you're okay in there just open-" he stopped to catch some breath. The air in here reeked of cigarette smoke and Eddie continued knocking the door violently until the wrong one opened - a man of roughly sixty years in nothing but his underwear came out of it and pointed at Eddie accusingly.

"Hey, bastard, don't you want to shut the fuck up?" he complained.

"I don't want to!" said Eddie hotly.

"I have to get into this flat and I have to get into there now!"

"Then why don't you ring the bell upstairs?"

"He won't open!"

"He's probably asleep just like I was before you disturbed me!"

"Listen," Eddie said, stepping closer to the man, "this. Is Important. I have reason to believe that-"

And in that second the two of them could hear a weak voice from the inside of Richie's flat.

"Leave, Eds, plea'."

It was Richie, slurring the last syllable, and he did, frankly, not sound good. The telephone quality had hidden the tiredness and the smoky roughness of his voice, the weakness that was so deafening that Eddie wanted to scream at him.

"See, there? He doesn't want you here," Richie's neighbour said and shuffled back into his own flat, closing the door while Eddie approached Richie's again.

"I'm not leaving," he threatened.

"Someday you'll have to get out of here and then I'll be waiting."

"Who says I'll get out of here alive?" Richie asked and in this second the scales fell from Eddie's eyes and he thought he must go mad.

"Richie NO!" he screamed, his voice an octave higher than usual, sounding almost like him as a child.

"Let me in! Richie please, I'm begging you, let me in! You can't do this to me!"

And he realized that Richie really, actually couldn't do this to him. That he was attached to him, that their fates were woven, and Eddie felt he had to die if Richie did. And another time scales fell from his eyes as he realized that, if he didn't do anything, Richie might actually kill himself because that was what he had been referring to, suicide, and nothing else.

"Please," he repeated again and his voice broke off.

"Please..."

Nothing happened.

And in his blind rage and despair Eddie threw himself, shoulder first, against the door and repeated this movement until he finally brought up enough power to crash it. The low quality wood splintered into pieces around the lock and the door was unlocked now, enabling Eddie to turn the doorknob and open the door. He breathed out a sigh of relief that did not last long.

The smell of alcohol, whiskey, to be more exact, hung in the air, two empty and one opened bottle of it were on the drawer that was covered in a fine, thin layer of white powder, the same powder that many of Eddie's clients used recreationally in the back of his limo. Richie lay on the mattress, covered in a blanket, holding onto his right arm around which a shirt that Eddie knew too well was wrapped; a Freese's shirt, an artifact of their childhood.

Richie looked as terrible as he sounded.

His hair was grown put until his shoulders, but not in nice way, it was simply uncut. He must have weighed less than when he had been eleven, a concerning fact knowing how lanky and skinny he had been back then. His face was sunken, all deep-set eyes and lines of aging too early.

"God, Rich," was all Eddie brought out as he kneeled next to him and shook his shoulder. Richie stared at him apathetically, blinking every now and then.

"Rich!" Eddie repeated and looked into Richie's dull eyes.

"You owe me a new door, Eddie Spaghetti," Richie slurred before he got up, sprinted to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet.

Eddie followed him and held his hair back gently. For a moment he considered kissing the back of Richie's head, but he was married now and this was not the situation for love confessions. Because Richie was way too drunk, and his arm was bleeding way too much, dripping drops of blood onto the tiles as Richie couldn't hold the already soaked Freese's shirt onto it any longer.

Five minutes later, roughly, he was done throwing up.

"I can't believe you're here, Eds," Richie whispered, and then he started crying.


	3. Chapter 3

Holding Richie in his arms felt strange yet simultaneously it was strangely natural to have his presence so close to Eddie. It had usually been the other way around, Eddie remembered, Richie holding Eddie's own little body close. That was before... yeah, before what exactly had happened?

Richie was a mess, it was undeniable. He drank and cut and used drugs and Eddie could not explain to himself how the fuck it had come to this. Richie "Trashmouth" Tozier, always the most cheerful of the group, quickest to make an inappropriate comment, first to banter with Eddie, Stan or any of the others, had grown into one hell of a mess. Eddie was not sure whether Richie liked to talk about what had happened, but at least he wanted to give it a try.

"Richie, what the hell happened to you?" he asked in a whispring tone. Richie had not ceased crying and the dark circles around his eyes were quickly reddening.

"God, Eds, to hell if I know," he laughed, choking on his own laughter.

"Richie, talk to me. Please." Eddie pushed Richie's head away from his chest a little so that he could look into his tearstained face. Richie's arm was twisted so that he could lie in Eddies arms while at the same time letting the blood - which was slowly drying already - drip into the tiolet, where it coloured the water a deep, crimson red colour.

"I' been talking to you the whole time," Richie muttered and buried his face against Eddie's chest again. Tears and snot began to stain Eddie's suit, but the thought of the germs and of how he should explain this to Myra only lingered for a second before a violent sob from Richie's side distracted Eddie's attention.

"I know I'm probably- no, I know I'm definitely disgusting you. Hell, you shouldn't even be here! It was pure, terrible chance that brought you here and god I wish I would never have called that number. 'm so sorry to say but I wish I'd never seen you again because then... because then..." Again he choked, throwing himself into a severe coughing fit.

"Because then what...?" Eddie whispered with his breath held. His fingers grasped Richie's weak upper arms and held onto them like to an anchor that would somehow save him from this fucked up situation. Richie was right, he shouldn't even be here, he should be lying in bed with his wife and sleeping and definitely not clinging to an old childhood friend that he hadn't even thought of in what? Twenty years? But there was a feeling of duty within him that told him that he had to hold onto Richie, that told him there were still things he could not recall and that if he did not hold onto Richie then something terrible would happen in the future.

And last but not least there was all the tender yet ferocious love that burned ardently within him, all the feelings he'd had when he'd heard Richie's voice again. Eddie would not want to trade these feelings for anything in the world, even though they burned so hotly that they consumed all that was inside of him and burned out his body, draining him to the point of weakness. It was like a fever.

"If you hadn't come I would be dead," Richie whispered, defeated, and it sounded so definite and final that Eddie's heart contracted and froze in fear. Was he having a heart attack? he asked himself, for this stinging was what he'd heard a heart attack felt like... but surely a pure medical condition wouldn't come with such emotional toll, the need to shake Richie and scream at him no, no you wouldn't be dead, and you won't be, I won't allow this to happen.

"Richie no," was the only thing he said, and he repeated it over and over again until he was a mess himself.

"You gotta think 'm so wretched, man," Richie said, hiccuping, if it was because of his crying or his drunkenness Eddie could not tell.

"D'you know alcohol kills bacteria?" he then asked, prompting Eddie to look at him doubtfully, as if he, Richie, had lost his mind.

"Of course I knew that, dipshit," Eddie said and for a moment their dynamics were like twenty years ago until he looked down at Richie again and felt that sinking feeling in his chest that always came, in a milder form however, when he saw beloved movie characters die.

"Y-you see, coincidentally you're scared of bacteria," Richie sobbed.

"A-and you see, coin- coincidentally alcohol also has the power to kill me. So that's a jackpot, two in one, innit, 'cause alcohol kills two things that are and always have been bad for you."

"You're not talking sense, Rich," Eddie told him.

"Nothing's gonna kill you. Nothing's even gonna hurt you. Not as long as I am here, because I, and now you listen closely, will not let that happen."

"You haven't seen me in twenty years," Richie said and laughed a joyless laugh as he tore away from Eddie's chest and wrapped his arms around his knees. He looked terribly small, scared and lost.

"I could be a murderer for all you know. And you still want to make sure I don't die?"

"All I know is that you're a mess," was what Eddie said.

"And that I can't have you deal with whatever you're dealing with alone. Because you, my dear, have terrible coping mechanisms."

"Then leave me alone with my terrible coping mechanisms and hope they kill me," Richie said, still not looking at him. His head was lying on top of his knees now, his hands entwined and stretched out as far as possible.

"Don't," Eddie sad softly, " you'll reopen the wounds. We have to get you patched up somehow."

There it was again, that laugh without any joy in it, cumulating in another choked sob.

"Just leave me the fuck alone, Eddie. Why are you even here?"

"What do you expect me to say now, Richie?" Eddie asked, thinking of the multitude of answers that he could give. The one that sat at the tip of his tongue was "I love you" but he couldn't just tell Richie that and besides, he was married and all this confusion of mind was too much for him to take. He could feel the red spots on his cheek, the zinging of his own breath. And he hadn't taken his asthma spray, it was in the car, but he'd rather die than leave Richie alone at this moment.

"You still got your asthma, man?" Richie asked and now he looked at Eddie with one eyebrow raised. He'd stopped crying, Eddie noted with relief, but the tears had made way to something completely different and not better: utter defeat. In this state, eddie guessed, a person would not hesitate to fling themselves off a cliff, would do it without a second thought just because they were so done, done with the world, done with themselves, done with just about everything and everyone in existence.

"Got it under control," Eddie wheezed as he tried to breathe calmly. Then he slid closer to Richie on the dirty white bathroom tiles - well, they might once have been white, at least - and hesitantly put an arm around him. Richie sat there frozen like a statue and said nothing, until he finally let his head sink down on Eddie's shoulder and allowed it to rest there.

Their peace in which eddie dared to hope lasted two minutes. Then he heard a suppressed retch again and before he could catch a clear thought he was holding Richie's hair again, Richie who now had resumed crying hysterically.

"Eddie I don't believe you're putting up with me just leave!" he cried, pushing himself as far away from Eddie as possible. He even tried to stand up but his legs were not under his control any longer due to the alcohol he'd consumed previously and so he crashed down onto the floor, quickly brushing Eddie's arm with his skin. He'd pulled down his sleeves so Eddie could see no more scar tissue, but knowing it was there hurt all the same.

"What happened to you, Rich?" Eddie brought out arduously as Richie, disturbed by the movement, threw up for what would be the third and last time in this night. When he had stopped, Eddie let go of his hair and put one hand on top of Richie's that rested on the floor. The touch calmed both of them a little, but Richie was still not okay. Not that Eddie would have expected that from him, anyways.

"I'm a loser," he heard Richie whisper.

"We're all losers," Eddie replied with a smile that was meant to give Richie courage. But it only made him burst into tears again.

"We were but I'm... I'm a nothing. What am I? Nothing. I'll never get anywhere in life," he sobbed.

"You're not nothing," Eddie whispered and grasped around Richie's hand. Then, after a second of hesitation, he kissed the back of Richie's head, buried his face in his curls that smelled like stale smoke but lingering underneath was another smell, Richie's own smell, one that had changed yet somehow remained the same.

"You're not nothing," he repeated, mumbling into Richie's hair.

"You've never been nothing."


	4. Chapter 4

When Richie had finally fallen asleep on his bare mattress it was 4am. Only then it occurred to Eddie to check his phone for messages - and he discovered that he had 44 missed calls from Myra. Eddie sighed and, checking back on Richie one last time, he stepped out of the door to call his wife back.

"Eddie where are you?" she greeted him, it was clearly audible how upset she was by the way she clamoured.

"I told you I was with a friend and Myra, please be quiet, there are people sleeping here."

"Where on earth are you, Eddie? Why are there people sleeping?"

"Listen, darling, can I explain this to you later?"

"Later? And when's later supposed to be? Don't you think you owe me an explanation right now? Later better be soon! Don't you know how worried I was about you? You could've been kidnapped! Eddie, that's not you, just leaving your poor wife to visit some random old friend-"

"He's not a random old friend!" Eddie cut her off.

"And while we're at it, I'm not coming back until noon. At least."

"Eddie!" she cried, and suddenly she reminded him very much of his mother, the way she scolded him with the sheer use of his name.

"Eddie you can't do this to me! Please! Just tell me where you are, I'll come, I'll..." She sounded close to tears.

"Myra, I really can't tell you..."

"Eddie, please come home. I haven't found a single second of sleep since you've been gone," she sniffled and Eddie shook his head in defeat. This is your wife, he reminded himself, this is who you're supposed to be with. This is the one that will save you from this mess of feelings you're in.

But Richie...

Richie... Richie was a mess, and Eddie did not know, did not have a single idea about how to deal with human messes. He was a limo driver, goddammit, not a therapist!

"Eddie?" asked Myra shyly and Eddie breathed out.

"I'm coming home, darling."

\---

When Richie awoke, sunlight streamed through the windows already. The sun was at its highest point, it was noon, he had slept for eight hours but still felt as drained as though he'd gotten no sleep at all. His head was throbbing. His arm was stinging. And he was alone.

The memories of last night came slowly, like in a delirium, and yet there was something missing. Richie remembered that, when he hadn't been so drunk yet, only high, in fact, he'd found the small brown notebook, the landline number scribbled on it. He remembered the female voice, what had been the name? Melly? Mia? Myra?

Myra.

Myra Kaspbrak.

Eddie Kaspbrak.

And then it flooded over him again, his dreamlike illusions of their past in Derry, how reality had mingled iwth wishful thinking. The hammock must have been reality, he thought, for the memories were sharp as a blade. But their kiss in the quarry... it was blurred, like nothing else, a soft blur of motion and emotion and Richie thought how stuoid he must have been to, for one millisecond, believe that it actually had happened. Eddie didn't loved him. Eddie had never loved him. Eddie was married now, to a woman named Myra whose voice was deep and high pitched at the same time and Richie would never see Eddie again.

Richie's glance wandered around the room, searching for where he'd left his glasses in his drunkenness. He could not spot them, would have to get up to look. With an exasperated sigh he let his head fall back onto the mattress - and something hard was pressed against his skull.

"Ouch!" Richie exclaimed, startled. His hands wandered to his hair - greasy, unwashed and disgusting, but lately he'd been either too high or too tired to do just any basic hygiene - and underneath his head, where they grasped the stiff fabric of something Richie had last worn at his cousin Benny's wedding when he had been seventeen: a jacket that unmistakably belonged to a suit.

How did the fucking jacket get into his own run-down apartment?

Upon further inspection Richie noticed the good quality of both the fabric and the sewing lines, as well as the unusual modeling, shoulders not as broad as for an average men's suit. It was tailored, Richie noticed, and then asked himself why the fuck there was afancy, tailored suit jacket in his flat.

"What did I do?" he moaned, burying his head in the jacket unknowingly. In the next second he sat up in his bed like a tumbler, electrified by the smell of it that was so clean and neat and yet so trusted, didn't belong here but belonged to him...

"Eddie..." he whispered, and then he was standing on his feet, swaying but he was standing, and found his glasses on the bathroom floor where there was dried blood on the tiles. Richie ran his hand through his hair. That was when he spotted that the door was only the slightest bit open. The wood around the lock was splintered.

He remembered... he remembered the loud voices outside of his door, the argument that ended soon after it had started, the sound of bones and flesh against wood, the crash as the door had given in...

Richie's eyes were burning. as he looked into the mirror he noticed how red-rimmed his eyes were. There were traces of blood on his cheeks, he must have slept on his arm again, but most importantly he looked as if he'd been crying. The last thing he could recall, however, was crossing his room fast to not throw up on the floor - the rest was gone. But even before that there had been someone else in the room, another face...

Yes, Eddie had been here. And Richie had no idea what he had done.

\---

"Hello Mrs. Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier here..."

"You!" she exclaimed, sounding furious all of a sudden. Richie closed his eyes and waited for the storm, to find out what he had fucked up the previous night.

"My husband came home from your place at 5am, smelling like stale cigarette smoke! He has asthma! Do you even know what cigarette smoke can do to him?"

Richie had never seen Myra Kaspbrak in person but at this second he envisioned her in front of his eyes as Sonia Kaspbrak, Eddie's mother, because that was exactly what she sounded like; overly worried about her hyponchondriac son who was only convinced of being sick all the time because she had made him believe it. And as grotesque and maybe serious as the situation was, Richie started laughing madly. Because Eddie had, in fact, married his mother, and Richie could frankly not believe it.

But as funny as it appeared to him in the first seconds, as sad did it become when Richie thought about it the second time. Eddie had only stood up to his manipulative (and Richie himself would even go as far as saying emotionally abusive) mother once in his lifetime, and that had been a matter of life and death, so to say. And after Eddie had finally cut the bonds between him and Sonia and moved out (or at least Richie hoped he had), he was at the mercy of his mother's image. Eddie really didn't know what was good for him, did he?

But then again, do you, Rich? Do you know what's good for you?

Yeah, he told himself. I'm doing everything that's good and fit for me. Because I deserve nothing else than this. And even though he had thought for one little, stupid second that he might be what was good for Eddie that thought was immediately banished to the trash can in the back of his mind. You might once have been his match, he thought bitterly, but nowadays you would only drag him down with you.

"Alright, Mrs. K.," he told Eddie's wife over the phone, without even noticing he was calling her what he had used to call Sonia Kaspbrak.

"What about this: you don't tell Eds I called here and in return I never call again?"

"What business do you have calling him Eds?" she bickered and Richie, who was sitting on the edge of his mattress, put one hand to his forehead and shook his head.

"None, you're right, Mrs. K., I'm very sorry," he said discouragedly and settled for taking the first swig of the day from his whiskey bottle because his hands were beginning to tremble perceptibly.

"I'm sorry for disturbing your peace. Won't happen again, promised."

He took the next swig from the bottle. The amber liquid burned in his throat and he enjoyed the pain while he waited for a response from Myra. For a split second he wondered what it might feel like to pour the whiskey over his wounds...

"That Tozier guy," he suddenly heard Myra say on the other end, spite was in her voice.

"But he just promised he wouldn't disturb us again." Richie hated the way she emphasized the pronoun "us", making it clear that - and his heart skipped a beat - she was talking about Eddie. He was there, just behind the other end of the phone, so close yet so far and all Richie wanted was to run to him and throw himself at him and tell him that it would be okay now, they would be okay...

Richie's heart ached and hammered in his chest.

"Give me... the phone!" he heard Eddie's voice at the other end.

"Give me the fucking phone, Myra!"

"Eddie!" she whined, shocked at the curse word he'd used. Another fact that made her painfully similar to Eddie's mother, Richie thought, and while the married couple was still wrestling for the phone Richie thought about whether he should hang up and just go through with his plan so he wouldn't disturb the life of this pair anymore, nor any others.

But before he could press the fateful button (because this time Eddie wouldn't be here soon enough) he heard his voice at the other end, out of breath and with Myra rambling in the background but it was there, and it said his name.

"Richie," Eddie said, and his voice was so full of relief that Richie shuddered.

"Thank God, you're there."

"Where would I be, idiot?" Richie asked, desperately trying to regain some of his ease that he'd used to have in conversation.

"Oh, you know," Eddie said strainedly, and then he exploded, "dead, maybe? Do you even know how worried I was, not hearing from you?"

"I was asleep, asshole," Richie mumbled, but truth to be told, the concern in Eddie's voice did something to him. Shook him to the core. Made him tremble and feel even more terrible than he already did.

"Richie, oh Richie," he heard Eddie at the other end and shivered even more internally.

"Shall I come?"

And this offer was what gave him the rest. The thought that someone might care enough about him to spare time from their precious day for him, to do it twice... it was all too much for Richie.

"Stay away from me, please," Richie whispered at Eddie.

"I'm gonna ruin you if you let me stay in your memories. Pretend this never happened. Forget about Derry and about us. Just... go away. Okay?"

Eddie wanted to say something, but Richie had hung up, his face twisted in agony. His choice was between the bottle, the knife and the rope now. But he decided for none of them, decided to head out into the anonymous city where Eddie could never find him and maybe return for his things later. Maybe he should go homeless. Freeze to death at night. It would be easier, he guessed, than anything else. And Eddie would never find him. And that was what he wanted, right?

Except that it wasn't. He wanted Eddie to come, to be his saviour, to keep him warm at night. But that was fairytale bullshit, and it would never happen. Never ever.

As he walked out of his door with only his clothes on him he noticed that it was still broken. With pain in his eyes he turned back into his room, picked up his phone - it didn't fucking matter if he left it here and it got stolen - and typed one message before he remembered that he didn't even have Eddie's mobile number. There was nothing connecting them besides the memories, at this point. So he deleted the message before heading out, but not without smiling at it weakly one last time.

"You still owe me a new door, fucker," it read.


	5. Chapter 5

Eddie was pacing up and down his living room restlessly. He could smell the cigarette smoke in his own hair, and unwillingly he had to remember the smell of Richie, that new Richie, the one he didn't know in the slightest bit but still held as close to his heart as possible.

He knew that he should forget about this tiny episode of a few hours of his night but found himself not capable of doing just that. Because Richie... he did not only spark pity within Eddie, it was the electrifying sensation of old love, the bubbling up of emotions and the unwilling giggle when they faced each other again after years.

Twenty years.

That was the time that he'd completely forgotten about Richie. And damn, maybe he should do as Richie wished. Maybe he should let Richie be Richie and forget again. But there was something inside telling him that their paths were bound to cross once more, and the answer to the question "why" was buried somewhere in their shared past.

As he internally uttered the word "past", Eddie felt what it must feel like to have lightning crack your skull. The pain was sudden, and as he went to his knees, pictures flashed in front of his eyes, pictures of darkness and slimy walls, of stinking water (yes, he could smell the images) and blood, of horrific creatures and pain.

The visions ceased as sudden as they had started, and Eddie found himself sunken against the couch with his fingers pressed to his forehead in which the phantom agony still throbbed despite the real pain having washed over him like a wave and being gone now.

"What the fuck was that?" he whispered to himself and arduously came back to his feet. Myra was out of the house doing grocery shopping, something that usually was Eddie's job since she couldn't always keep his countless allergies in mind, but today Eddie had refused to accomapny her under the pretext of needing rest because of the previous night.

He'd called Richie three times since she'd been gone. And Richie hadn't picked up a single time, of course not, his phone was turned off and the worry was nagging at Eddie's flesh. He'd been pacing thinking of whether he should drive to Richie's place again; on one hand he didn't want to disturb him but on the other hand he knew he would never forgive himself if something happened to Richie. It was like a fucked up kind of duty, something that lingered from their childhood days. Eddie could vaguely remember how worried and afraid he'd been during the fateful summer he couldn't recall, and he was certain that some, if not most, of these worries had been caused by Richie.

And now Richie was in this condition, in this mentally unstable condition where he was as good as unpredictable. He'd always been erratic, but still somewhat predictable. Right now, however, it struck Eddie that it would be a miracle if Richie was still alive.

"Eddie, honey, I'm back," he then heard Myra call through the house. Hastily he straightened his hair that had suffered from his head's touching the couch as he'd slid down onto the floor. After having run his hand through his hair he walked towards his wife and kissed her on the lips. It was only a small peck, the kiss of a couple that had been married for years and whose kisses were beginning to miss spark, but during this kiss he felt so unattracted to her that he shivered internally. Eddie couldn't help but remember how kissing Richie's unwashed, smoke-smelling hair had sparked so much more within him: raw pain, pure joy, bittersweet nostalgia. It had all been there, and with Myra now... it wasn't.

Eddie wondered what that meant, he seriously asked himself the question, the answer to which he knew he would avoid even beyond the point of being unable to avoid it any longer.

\---

It was 3:56pm and Richie was wasted.

The cheap bars in his city quarter were open all day long, but after two hours of steady drinking none of them had served him any more alcohol, so he'd bought a cheap bottle of something something at a gas station, trying to act as sober as possible, and was now roaming the paths of the large yet ugly park area in his neighbourhood while wanting to get as far away from his flat as possible because it was out of question that Eddie would turn up there again sooner or later.

There was a young lady with a stroller hurrying by, casting a pitiful yet simultaneously anxious glance at him. She seemed to hope that he wouldn't notice her, but Richie wouldn't do her that favour. He stopped in his tracks.

"You can say it." he said calmly. His words were strongly slurred already.

"S-say what?" she asked, slowing down and eventually stopping; Richie could not overhear the fear in her eyes and voice.

"Say whatever you wanna say," he replied and stepped a little closer, in response to which the lady pulled the stroller with the sleeping baby away from him and defensively took up a stand in front of it.

"C'mon, you can't tell me there's nothin' goin' on in your mind," he said challengingly.

"I wish you would get away from me!" she cried out. Her voice was trembling.

"There it is." Richie laughed the joyless laugh he knew best.

"Well, I can do you that favour. I just wish..." Richie's lower lip started to tremble.

"I just wish he'd said this to me..."

He turned and walked away from the lady without looking back. Had he looked back he would have seen how she hastily walked, almost ran away from him, contemplating whether to raise her middle finger at him for a second before she decided not to do that and instead get away as quickly as possible. But Richie did not look back, he didn't want to see the lady again, not her dyed, firey red hair, not her porcelain doll face nor her fake fur jacket, her black jeans or her brown half-boots. All he wanted to see was Eddie, but at the same time Eddie was what he wanted to see last of all in the entire world. Because Eddie shouldn't waste his time with him. Richie was supposed to be dead already, and nothing in the world could change this course of nature. Richie hated himself for calling Eddie, in that moment.

All he had was his bottle of something, his wasted, wretched mind, his thin jacket and the fresh slices on his lower arms to remind him how terrible of a person he was. And that had to be enough for him. That already was much more than he deserved.

\---

At exactly 6pm Eddie was standing in the kitchen next to Myra, cutting up the things she threw into a pot to cook. He supposed they were a fairly pregressive couple concerning the household, but that didn't comfort him or soothe his sore heart that was rubbed sore again every time he thought about Richie. Eddie was unfocused and it showed; he cut his finger as his knife slid off the edge of a carrot, and as he absentmindedly stuck his finger into his mouth to lick off the blood (something that he would never have, but Richie frequently had done) he thought about how Richie's blood had stained the bathroom tiles the night before.

"Eddie?"

"Myra, darling, what's the-"

"Eddie you're bleeding!"

"Yeah... yeah I suppose I am," he whispered confusedly. Myra put herself up in front of him, hands on her hips, looking very strict and very much like his mommy.

"Eddie," she said, and for a second he though he had heard Eddie-Bear, "what's the matter with you? You've been off ever since you got back from visiting that old... friend of yours." She said the word "friend" with so much scorn in her voice that Eddie's fuses eloped.

"Myra," he said sharply, "I've told you that he's not just 'that old friend of mine'!"

The moment he'd worded it he realized how wrong this must have sounded, and before he could correct himself

(why correct something that was true?)

Myra broke into tears.

"T-that's the matter, isn't it?" she sobbed.

"You've been lying to me all the time! All this time you've been... you've been... you've been gay?"

"Myra no, that's not what it-" Eddie began but had to cut himself off. If it wasn't this, what else should it be? he wondered. What was the next best plausible explanation for his heart bursting when he thought of Richie gone, what was the next best explanation for his memories of their kisses and nothing else?

Just as he thought of the kisses, more memories flashed into his mind, not skull-cracking this time but just as overwhelming, and this time he thought his heart might actually burst with emotion.

There were Richie's eyes, his beautiful eyes, so fixed on him that Eddie could feel the gaze; and his own eyes were stuck on Richie's and there was no escaping the chemistry between them. Then the scene changed, and they were in a hammock together with nobody around. Richie's legs were spread so that Eddie could comfortably sit between them, put his head on Richie's chest, occasionally turn around to steal kisses while they were reading from one and the same comic book.

It went on and on, a multitude of memories. We were so in love, Eddie marvelled, how could I ever have forgotten? Then he thought about the blood again. Something had happened in this summer, something life changing that had brought them together and apart, that had bonded them for life. And as Eddie stared at the palm of his hand it was almost as if he could see a thick scar on it, only for a moment, though, before it turned pale and smooth again.

Eddie Kaspbrak realized that he loved Richie Tozier at 6:09pm on this Saturday evening in January. And he caught himself with a bravery that he hadn't experienced in twenty years, not since he'd stood up to his mother, and the iron glance he'd had back then was in his eyes once more.

"Bisexuality is a thing," he told Myra coldly, untied his apron, popped on his coat and left into the night, ignoring his wife's wailing behind him.

\---

By now it was 10pm and Richie felt like he needed a line. But he could not go back to his apartment, no, he would never go back there, not until Eddie would drag him. But he was in a completely strange part of town, he didn't even know where he'd been walking, and Eddie certainly wasn't going to find him so far away from home. Or at least he hoped so. In fact he would rather freeze to death.

Richie couldn't even explain to himself why he so desperately did not want to see Eddie again. Or maybe he could, but his explanation only touched the surface of his true problem.

"'m not good for him," he muttered, hands in the pockets of his worn out jacket. He took one hand out and slid it, icy as it was, underneath his sleeve where the wounds were still hot and throbbing.

"Gotta stay away."

And that was what he kept telling himself: stay away from Eddie. It was his fault, it was all his fault what had happened to him, and if he couldn't fix it, nobody could. Not even Eddie. No matter how much Richie loved him, all heartache and longing, fairytale bullshit, as he'd assured himself before, was not going to happen. He would die and Eddie would never see him again. That was how they rolled.

\---

Around midnight Richie could hear the tolling of the bells that stroke midnight all over the city. They had something strangely comforting, he thought to himself, something so constant. They would probably endure the demise of humanity, Richie told himself as he took the needle to his arm, for the first time in his life he was going to inject something and he realized he'd really hit rock bottom now.

It was a pleasurable rush at first, calming Richie's fidgeting and nail chewing and all the other shit he was used to doing. But then he felt his heart nearly exploding in his chest, it beat so violently, but its beating was slowed down and came irrgularly. His mouth was dry all of a sudden, his skin flushed and hot and his arms were becoming so heavy that he had to lie down - which was a good thing, because no twenty seconds later he would have collapsed. He felt a knot in his chest, his vision went black - and then there was nothing that he remembered.


	6. Chapter 6

Eddie was pacing again.

This time he was in front of Richie's apartment block, attentively watching the window of Richie's flat to immediately find out if he returned home through an entrance that was not the main front door. Eddie was aware that his behaviour had something of stalking, but he was convinced that it was to be defended because his intentions were good. He only wanted Richie to become clean and happy.

After having left Myra and their house - Eddie still didn't know how the hell he should fix this - he' wandered around Richie's quarter for hours without ever stopping. He'd thought about getting a drink from one of the bars, just because that was one of the few times of his life when he actually needed it, but then had remembered why he was here in the first place. As nasty as it sounded, he didn't want to end up like Richie. Because then they'd both be addicts and would go nowhere except maybe into death. Or just infinite suffering. Who knew?

Eddie had decided to take another walk through the dark streets. Myraq had called him 17 times since he'd been gone, her voice mails softening and assuming a begging tone, begging him to come home. But Eddie didn't want to come home. He didn't even know if his home was his home anymore. Could he ever return to Myra after what he'd done to her.

He'd reached a little park, not particularly nice; it was illuminated by dirty orange street lights that vaguely cut through the blackness of the night. The only sign of life except for him was a young woman with fiery red hair walking her little dog, a chihuahua, if Eddie recognized correctly. Myra loved chihuahuas, she'd always wanted to get one but had renounced due to Eddie's dog hair allergies. Suddenly Eddie's bravery faltered. Was it right to be here? Shouldn't he just go back to his wife and continue living their quite ordinary lifestyle? Sure, they were rather wealthy, successfully driving around celebrities and all that stuff, but still they were an ordinary, childless couple. He had lived twenty years without wasting a thought on Richie, why shouldn't he continue?

But then Eddie realized that he could not simply go back to Myra now. He'd hurt her, convinced her that he didn't love her anymore. She probably thought he was gay, anyways, and maybe, maybe deep inside - and it stung him to realize - he was. Maybe he'd just told Myra about him being bisexual because he'd wanted to hide that he'd never really been in love with her.

In the moment Eddie thought about this it was crystal clear all of a sudden. Myra was like his mother, that was what Richie would've said first thing upon meeting her. Sure, Eddie had been denying it and pushing the thought away for years but now that he realized he also realized that there was no way in hell that the thing he'd shared with Myra had been love.

What else would it have been, dumbass? he asked himself, and answered only a heartbeat later: a need for security, for stability. Whatever had happened in the forgotten summer, it had impacted him so deeply that he'd clung onto his mother even stronger. And after she'd passed away...

It was not that Myra had been the only woman that he could possibly have married. After his mother's death there had been countless friends of hers trying to set him up with one of their daughters out of sheer pity. But Myra, her mother being a distant cousin of his father's who had for some reason shown up at the exact day of Sonia's burial to look after his father's grave, had been different. She had cared for him, had taken his allergies and illnesses seriously, had clung to him like a baby monkey and given him the sense of being needed - the thing that he'd missed most after his mothe's passing. And so things had come to pass. They had gotten married, but right now Eddie doubted their so-called love like he doubted every decision and event of his life.

Richie... the feelings he held for Richie were so different. "She needs me," had been his thought when he'd been thinking about Myra. "She loves me." But with Richie, it was the other way around. "I need him. I love him." Richie was all fireworks and twisting guts and butterflies and heart palpitations, as cheesy and teenager-y it might sound. Myra was, or rather had been, security. Nothing else and nothing more.

Eddie had to laugh to himself in the abandoned park. This was not how he'd wanted to realize that his life as he knew it had ended. That he'd given up on a stable and secure life with a loving wife for his male, depressed, addict, suicidal and male youth lover, his love for whom was still stuck in their teenage years. But that was how life went, apparently, and Eddie laughed a little more.

As he looked up he saw the redhead woman casting him a half frightened, half derogatory glance; something in her eyes seemed to say "not again".

"Hey, you!" Eddie called out for her, following a sudden intuition. She stopped and mustered him, probably trying to determine whether the man in his blue jeans and grey sweater was a rapist or a serial killer.

"I just want to ask something," he said, just to be secure.

"You don't have to come close, if you don't want to."

She still looked suspicious, but the hard lines around her mouth had softened considerably.

"Alright, so, have you seen a man with dark curly hair around here today?" Eddie asked her.

"Wearing..." he recalled the outfit Richie had worn when he'd seen him, having no reason to believe he'd changed it since then, "worn-out blue jeans, a yellow-brown-ist shirt and a leather jacket? Probably wasted?" he added carefully as she looked at him blankly.

Her face lightened up a little, instantly darkening upon the memory.

"Fuck yeah, I did," she said, her voice sounding snide and derisive.

"That guy was fucked up. He scared the shit out of me. I'm glad he left me alone! Was carrying a bottle of vodka, I think it was, around, and sounded like it, too. And before you ask, I can't tell you where he went, I was too focused on getting my kid the fuck away from him!"

Eddie's newfound hope sank.

"Thank you," he said discouragedly.

"Welcome, man," she said and lifted her hand as a goodbye. She still did not trust him entirely, that was what he gathered from the quick pace with which she left. But she'd been rather talkative about their encounter, which Eddie was thankful about. He knew that Richie had been here.

But that was it already. He didn't know where he'd gone, didn't even know whether he was still alive. He might as well be dead, and that was what scared Eddie most of all. Because despite what everyone would say, it would be his, Eddie's fault for not stopping him. And Eddie would never forgive himself for leaving Richie alone, as unstable as he was.

\---

"Man? Hey, man, you okay? You're not looking good."

"W-what?" Richie muttered in a daze. His field of vision shifted in front of his eyes and his mouth was as dry as the Sahara desert. He put one hand to his forehead and winced at the heavy feeling still in his limbs. He wanted to roll over, but was held back by the arms of the person who had addressed him.

"Not there, man, you threw up over there."

"Jesus," Richie groaned and slowly the memories reattached themselves to his brain. The backroom of the strange bar. The man who'd taken him to his flat, promising him to get him something that'd "calm his mind" after Richie had nearly collapsed at the counter, anxiously trying to remember why he was here and why the hell Eddie wasn't.

He remembered that now, at least. Eddie certainly was with his wife, as he was supposed to be, and not with Richie, who was object of a life long gone. It saddened Richie to think of it, actually, how much they had loved each other and how suddenly they had been torn apart, how rapidly they had forgotten each other. Somehow Richie's affection was still stuck in the innocent days of his early teenage years, just that his innocence was irrevocably lost. And that was why Eddie had left, had had to have left him. Because he simply wasn't the old Richie anymore. He was just somebody that Eddie had used to know.

Richie recalled taking the needle to his arm, shooting up the white crystalline powder that had been molten over the candle flame. His own vision had been too blurry to do any of this, of course, and so the guy, whose name he couldn't have remembered if it had been for his life (not that his life mattered to him whatsoever) had handed him the prepared syringe. Richie had just tried to shoot it up, missing the vein he was aiming for multiple times.

Moaning, Richie tried to look at his arm. As he tried to push up his sleeves he noticed that his leather jacket was gone, that was why he was freezing so much, and that his cuts, both shallow and deep, and the thick scars lining his arms had been exposed. In the middle of all of these bloomed a huge, purple bruise, the colour of which would intensify over the course of the next days. Richie let his head drop to the floor and waited until his vision had sharpened again, however had to notice that he still was drunk, so he couldn't have been passed out for very long.

"It's around a quarter past 1," the guy next to him said, as if he could read Richie's mind.

"Thanks, man," he said.

"I have questions."

"Ask away." The man laughed; he could barely be twenty five, looking even younger with his babyface, the windbreaker jacket and the red snapback bearing the logo of some... baseball club? Richie couldn't see clearly enough to make it out.

"I'm James, by the way."

"Okay first, where the hell am I? Second, how the fuck did I get here? Third, why am I alive?"

"You're in the flat I share with my... roommate," the man said, and even Richie in his drunken state couldn't help but notice the hesitation with which he spoke.

"What are you two, gay?" he asked incredulously, only noticing how rude he'd sounded when it was almost too late.

"Okay, sorry, too private. Carry on with your answers."

"My roommate's kind of... a drug dealer, you gotta know," the man sighed.

"I guess you know it already. He brought you here, gave you a shot of H, then realized he'd fucked up and left me to clean up the mess. You're alive because I gave you naloxone, don't ask me where I got it from..."

James went on rambling, but Richie couldn't understand him anymore. All of his thoughts revolved around the letter James had dropped so casually. H. That was how low he'd sunken. Was he going to become a heroin addict now, too? Probably the golden shot was the best solution, he thought. He'd obviously overdosed on heroin earlier, even his clouded mind could connect those dots. And having done it once made it easier to do it again.

"Dude?" James asked, violently disturbing his thoughts.

"Y-yeah?" Richie stuttered

"I was asking whether you'd like your jacket. It was full of vomit, so I thought I'd take it off and clean it..."

"Thanks," Richie said. He was deadly tired all of a sudden, both physically and mentally.

He exchanged some more smalltalk with James, nothing meaningful, nothing that he had to think about before answering. Because his mind was fixed on the gun that was lying on the top shelf of the roommates' bookshelf so innocently, so very much in his reach, yet buried by sheets of paper so that its going missing would certainly not be noticed immediately.

And as James had gotten him his jacket and went to search for the shoes that Richie had taken off somewhere in the flat, Richie went on his tiptoes and quietly grabbed the gun from the top shelf, letting it vanish in one of the huge inner pockets of his leather jacket where it was basically invisible.


	7. Chapter 7

In the shady streets of the city quarter he lived in, Richie did strangely not feel afraid. Any sane person would take care and not walk through this part of the city at night if it was to be avoided in any way. But a sane person wasn't drunk with a stolen gun and absolutely no will to live, either, so Richie guessed it didn't matter whether he was here or in another place.

His eyes wandered up to his window, and for a split second he thought he'd seen a light flashing somewhere inside. Fuck, he realized, my door is still broken. But if there was an intruder inside his apartment - what did it matter? Okay, maybe he'd be shot by a thief instead of his own hand. But in the end it was all the same.

As Richie walked inside the house he recalled that this would be the last time he ever passed through this door alive. This time his mind was made up, there would be no endless preludes of self harm and wallowing in self pity; he would get right to the point. And this time, at this ungodly hour, there would be no Eddie to stop him.

Richie had climbed the stairs to his floor, almost tripping over so fast and drunk was he. Having reached his door he took a peak into the flat, around the edge of the broken door, and could spot no figure standing anywhere in the shadows. But a split second before Richie turned on the lights, his hand had already pressed the light switch at that point, there was small, green light flashing in the darkness through which no street lights tore at this building height. The indicator of a new message, it was, so it had to be Richie's phone - right?

As the lights went on, Richie realized how wrong he had been.

It was not his phone, it was a far more expensive one, some advanced Samsung shit, and it belonged to the man who lay curled up on Richie's mildly bloodstained mattress; he was wearing jeans and a grey sweater and his shoes had been taken off exemplarily at the entrance to the flat, right at Richie's feet.

Eddie still slept in the same position he'd used to as a child, an early teen.

He must be freezing, was Richie's first thought, and then he realized that, fuck, the lights being on meant Eddie could awake at any second and he, Richie-

"Richie...?" he heard a sleepy muttering from the mattress. Eddie's head that had been hidden under his own elbow was slowly redeemed from its hideaway and blinked at Richie, who gaped at him with his mouth slightly and his eyes wide open, in absolute and utter shock.

"Eddie..." was all he was capable to saying.

"Eds..."

And then he snapped. Richie spoke with his hands and lips trembling, before Eddie could even fully awake and realize the situation.

"Eddie, don't you fucking dare stay here. Leave or I'll blow my fucking head away."

\---

Eddie found himself in a state of shocked rigidity only five seconds after he'd opened his eyes. There was Richie, staring at him close to tears, swaying slightly in his stand... and holding a gun to his chin.

"Where'd you get the gun from?" was the first thing that escaped Eddie's mouth, but as he'd finished wondering about this (it took him approximately .2 seconds) he realized the severity of the situation, and all he could scream was Richie's name.

"You can't do this," he finally whispered.

"Tell me why I can't," Richie laughed. And misinterpreted Eddie's silence as he was thinking about the multitude of things to say to Richie, "Because I love you" being the first sentence on his mind, and simultaneously the one that he was least likely to say.

"You don't have the answer, do you? Well, neither have I. I guess it's too late to save me, anyways. All you can do now is walk away."

"I'll never walk away from you," Eddie said firmly and got to his feet. In response, Richie pressed the gun harder under his chin, prompting Eddie to step back again.

"Please don't do anything you'll regret later," Eddie said, not even realizing how stupid he sounded.

"Guess I won't live to regret it." Richie shrugged.

"But I will," Eddie breathed. Richie cocked his head; he hadn't understood the tiny voice.

"But I will," Eddie repeated. His voice was a shadow of fear now; fear of what Richie had become and what he was about to do. He knew that, if Richie died and he had to watch him die; if Richie just wasn't there anymore so shortly after he'd found him again, that then, Eddie Kaspbrak would have nothing to live for anymore.

"Why would I care?" Richie said. His voice was hard as rock.

"People always talk about how they suffer from the death of a loved one, how they suffer from somebody taking their own life. What about me? Does my pain not matter? It is your pain against mine, and forgive me if I choose to ease mine. I know I am a coward, have always been. But there is just too much that cannot be eased."

"Stop, stop, Richie. Don't you dare say something like this. There is nothing that cannot be fixed. Not even a vase shattered into thousands of pieces of broken glass can't never again be glued together - you just have to find a person with enough love and patience to do the job."

"Nice metaphor, Mr. English-class," Richie praised him sarcastically and bitterly.

"But you haven't realized that it's pretty fuckin' shitty context-wise. I'm not a broken vase of glass. Hell, I might be broken as fuck but I'm not in tangible pieces. What's broken about me simply cannot be fixed because it's abstract. It cannot be touched, or mended. That's the whole fuckin' point about this."

"Have you ever even tried?" asked Eddie softly.

"I haven't," replied Richie.

"And that doesn't matter at all. Because I'm gonna kill myself and I'm gonna do it right fuckin' now."

\---

There. He'd said it. It was so simple to just do it now, to pull the trigger and end it all... but one look into Eddie's eyes broke down all the walls he'd built to protect himself from himself. And instead of pulling the trigger he lowered his hand slowly, until it fell to his side, still clutching the gun; and he looked at Eddie in whose eyes tears were welling up, tears of relief and of grief and of shock that had been repressed until now and had been let loose the previous second.

Richie still didn't approach Eddie, he simply couldn't bring himself to do it. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the stolen gun, it was his hall pass into freedom, so to say, and he wouldn't hesitate to use it. Because really, what was there for him to live for? Eddie had Myra and his job and everything else in the life of an upper middle class man. He was at the bottom of society, a jobless addict with nothing better to do than shoot drugs up his veins and steal weapons from strangers who'd even cared for him.

He suddenly remembered a lot more from this summer from which the dreams of his and Eddie's love stemmed. There was blood, a lot of blood, a white face with red streaks on it - even more blood? - a broken arm, the word "lover" written onto a white surface. screams and fear in Eddie's beautiful eyes, and always the same cry ("Eddie! Eddie!") mingled with dirty laughter that did not seem human at all.

(don't touch the other boys, Richie, or they'll know your secret)

Richie's head dropped to his chest, from where he lifted it only the bat of an eye later with sore, reddened eyes. They were stinging, and he pushed the fingers of his spare hand underneath his glasses to ease the burning, the burning as of... smoke?

He desperately wanted to remember but there was no way that he could.

"Richie, please," he suddenly heard Eddie say. The other man came another step closer, and this time Richie didn't do anything against it, except speak.  
"Eds, please, don't make this so hard for the two of us," he said and he sounded deadly tired.

"Go back to your wife. Just go back to Myra and continue living your average, boring ass life that makes you two happy. I'm not a part of this world, I'll never be. Please, don't make this harder than it is."  
"It can't even be made harder than it actually is!" Eddie snapped. Tears were in his eyes still; he was still struggling to repress them.

"God, Rich, do you even realize how hard this is? Watching the one… watching you... dancing with death, knowing that it could be over any second? Do you realize how fucking hard this is?"  
"It would be much easier if you just went back to Myra and forgot about me again! You're making this so hard, pretending that it's so difficult! While in reality it isn't at all! It's all about your attitude!"  
"Richie, fuck, I just can't go back to Myra! Not after everything that happened!"

"After everything that happened? Eddie, literally nothing happened between us!"

Eddie stared at him in disbelief.

"Just tell me... you're trying to tell me you don't remember us? You don't remember all those things that I remembered about and that are the reason why I'm fucking here?"

"Eddie, those were wishful thinking! Dreams, nothing-"

"And besides, that's not what I was talking about!"

"What else were you talking about, dumbass?"

Somewhere during this escalating conversation, the grumpy face of Richie's neighbour had appeared in the doorway. He'd cleared his throat, going unnoticed, and as he was just about to speak, Eddie started to laugh almost hysterically.

"God, Richie, I left her! I left Myra! Because I couldn't bear her any longer. Because she's essentially my mother. Because… because I think…"

"It doesn't matter what you think or not, Eddie what matters is that you're here while you should be with My- wait you left her?"

"I left her." Eddie was laughing and crying at the same time. The neighbour's face was gone after he'd spotted the gun in Richie's hand.

"I fucking did that! And you want to know why? Because of you, dumbass! Because I remembered all those things that weren't just wishful thinking and god, I miss them! I want them back! I want you back, Richie! I fucking love you!"

Richie stood frozen in shock. There. It was out. Eddie loved him. But why did it spark bitterness instead of joy in his heart, something that seeped through him like acid and cauterized his intestines? Well, the nasty voice in his head took the lead, because you've finally destroyed Eddie and his life.

And this knowledge was too much for Richie.

He took the gun to his chin again.

Then he pulled the trigger.


	8. Chapter 8

It also went so fast. One second, Richie had almost seemed like he'd let the gun drop to the floor. The other second the gun flipped to his chin, and his finger pulled the trigger. The next few moments Eddie perceived in slow motion.

He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bloodbath that would inevitably follow. He also knew that, no matter where he tried to escape, he would have Richie's blood, bones and brains splattered all over his body, and so he gave himself to the illusion that he could push Richie away and change the path of the gun, so that the bullet wouldn't be shot through Richie's head but maybe into the ceiling…

Eddie felt himself crashing against Richie's body. Had he been fast enough? Because there hadn't been the sound of a gunshot… yet... and why didn't he feel the disgusting wetness of blood on his skin yet?  
Slowly, Eddie dared to open his eyes - and stared right onto the closed eyelids of Richie's.

\---

Richie felt happiness and peace settle in his heart as his finger made the all-deciding little motion. He'd had the guts to do it, finally, and even though Eddie would probably never heal from the sight of seeing someone shoot themselves in front of his eyes this would hopefully give him the push he needed to fix things up with his wife and return to his Richie-free life.

But why didn't Richie feel the momentary, blinding pain as his skull was ripped apart, flew away in thousands of pieces? Why didn't the world behind his closed eyes turn entirely white, a flash of agony before it all ended? Why did he instead crash onto the floor, his spine hitting the linoleum painfully, and why did his world behind closed eyes remain black with flecks of colour as he squeezed them shut? If he was dead, if he had shot himself in the head, why did the pain stem all from his back and not from his head? And why, why the hell was he still feeling?

Richie dared to open his eyes - and started as another pair of eyes appeared in front of his.

Eddie.

He was still here.

And suddenly Richie felt like breaking down, no, his within actually seemed to be ripped into two pieces so big was the hole that had suddenly broke open in his chest. The gun hadn't been loaded. Of course the gun hadn't been loaded, what sane person kept a loaded gun in their living room? Of course, the guy was a drug dealer, but even drug dealers had some common sense and to that belonged not keeping a fucking loaded gun on top of a random shelf in their apartment.

But before Richie could say anything, anything that maybe could have defended him, he felt Eddie's arms flung around him, how the smaller man's chest quivered on top of him. Richie could to nothing but drop the cursed gun and wrap his own arms around Eddie's shaking torso, held him as close as possible while never ceasing to ask himself how the fuck it had come to this.  
"God, Richie, I never want to let you go again," Eddie whispered into Richie's chest.

"You should though, I haven't showered in two weeks," Richie said, wrinkling his nose. Eddie gave a choked laugh and embraced Richie even tighter.

"I'm serious, I'm fucking nasty," Richie said sensibly and pushed Eddie off his chest gently. Deep inside, however, he wished indeed that Eddie would never let him go again. Because in Eddie's arms, he felt like he had a bit of a purpose, and that was to keep Eddie happy. He felt like the world, like he was a little more okay when Eddie was there. And even though his rational mind still told him that Eddie shouldn't waste his life on him, his heart was now screaming against it, begging him to bed Eddie to stay forever, and even forever wasn't enough.

Richie Tozier realized he loved Eddie at 2:34am on a Sunday, January morning, laying on the floor after he'd seriously attempted to attempt suicide; while Eddie was lying on top of him and sobbing into his chest and Richie himself was drenched in heartache and pain. And Richie didn't care about Eddie's weight on his own, skinny body, he just wanted him, wanted them to lie there forever. Because it was okay. Like this, it was okay.

"Eddie?" he whispered, burying his face in Eddie's hair and breathing his nice, clean scent.

"Yeah, Rich?" Eddie asked back and looked up to him, tears and a thousand fears in his eyes.

"Promise me you'll never leave me?"

"God, Rich, I promise! I swear it! I'm not willing to ever leave you again."

"That's good, Eds," Richie said and smiled into Eddie's hair, weakly but honestly. He hadn't counted since when he hadn't smiled so honestly but it had been a long, long time of depression and pain.

\---

They were sitting on the edge of Richie's mattress together, as close as it was possible without touching. Both were still hesitant about them as a unit, and who could blame them, Richie with his self image issues and Eddie with his repressed sexuality that he hadn't even admitted to himself for years?

"Can I ask you something?" Eddie said suddenly. Richie nodded in response; the lump in his throat that had formed when Eddie had started speaking not allowing him to say anything.  
"Do you also feel like...there's something missing? Of the summer from which the memories came from?"

Again, Richie nodded.

"There's..." Eddie began.

"...blood. And pain." Richie finished the sentence

"You saw it too?" Eddie whispered.

"I recalled it," Richie replied.

"It was there..."

"Maybe we don't want to remember. Maybe we aren't supposed to."

"I guess so," said Richie.

"Maybe it will come someday."

Silence followed. None of the two men knew what to say.

Then, after a good minute or so, Eddie slid a little closer to Richie so that their bodies were touching. His warm, soft hand gently slid into Richie's one that was icy and calloused. But to Eddie, it was the most perfect feeling in the world, sitting there with the love of his life - for that was what Richie was - at almost 3am on a January night, in a run-down flat on a bloodstained mattress, hands entwined and bodies close together to warm each other up.

"What's gonna happen now?" Eddie asked, and he was already afraid to hear the answer.

Richie shrugged.

"I guess I'm gonna go into rehab," he said thoughtfully and couldn't believe he had actually agreed to do that.

"Therapy would also be a good idea," Eddie added, and Richie smiled and squeezed his hand.

\---

When Richie awoke to the sound of the telephone ringing he slowly wound himself out of Eddie's tight embrace and tiptoed into the living room towards the phone. It wasn't necessary, Eddie's sleep was so deep that not even the phone could wake him up, but Richie was as quiet as possible out of habit.

He passed through the simple but clean and beautiful small city apartment that the two of them inhabited and, like every morning, silently thanked Eddie for enabling him this life. Two years of being clean were in the books, after multiple relapses he'd suffered, through which Eddie had always been by his side. Richie couldn't have done it without Eddie. And thankfully, Eddie had never looked back to Myra after he'd moved out of their shared home.

Richie picked up the phone, whispering a greeting without looking onto the caller identification.

"Richie. It's Mike," a deep, serious voice said at the other end.

"Mike who?" he said confusedly.

"Mike Hanlon. From Derry."

The next thing Richie knew was that he was bent over the sink, vomiting heavily as images of blood and pain and broken arms and incredible fear overwhelmed his mind.  
"Richie?" came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.

"Nothing, honey, I'm alright," Richie said, the next salvo of vomit punishing his lies.

"Richie?" Mike asked on the end. Ah. He was still there. Interesting, Richie thought, I certainly would've hung up if the other end of the line suddenly started making disgusting noises and throwing up.  
"Tomorrow," Richie repeated the last thing he remembered Mike saying.

"Right. But there's something else I wanted to know..." Mike took a breath.

"I...I couldn't find Eddie's number anywhere. No Edward Kaspbrak that matched, in the whole damn country, hell, in the world!."

"You pregnant, Rich?" Eddie's grinning face appeared in the door to the bathroom. He approached and ran his hands through Richie's curls. Richie smile and gave him a quick good morning kiss on the lips.  
"Richie?" Mike asked insecurely.

Now it was Richie's turn to take a deep breath, and he beamed as he was answering.

"Have you tried Eddie Tozier?"


End file.
